Blind
by AdemaTrivium
Summary: In death they have lost their way and they stand alone, even in each others arms. Post Chapter 616.


Hello there! This was an idea that came up while I was hearing Blind (Placebo) while I should be studying.  
I hope you enjoy it because I really did.

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

* * *

"_Don't go and leave me,__and please don't drive me blind"_

She was crying. Again. Lately it seems that it's the only thing she does, that she is able to do.

She curses her weakness; she is a mind walker, she reigns it and twists it around her fingers – so why can she subdue her own? Why can't she bury the pain in the depths of her heart, in the darkest corners where she will never reach again? She hates herself – her father always told her that love was the most precious gift that life could give us – so she, foolishly, loved everyone with utmost strength. Only now she realizes her mistake – hearts are only meant to be broken and love only serves to demolish the soul. Perhaps not demolish, it's something different, something harder to explain; she feels as pieces of her are disappearing, not tearing, but simply withering away, becoming ashes that slip away from her grasp. She is losing herself.

The room is dark. Or at least she thinks it is; however, she is not sure, she is not merely blinded by tears, she is blinded by pain and grief as well.

He also curses her; partly because she is drowning in self-pity (in his eyes she is so much stronger than that), partly due to her opposition to share with him her sorrow. He is mad at her. She always comes running to him, whining and bitching about everything and nothing at all, so, why can't she do the same now, when the hope was whipped away from her azure eyes and her warm smile is no more than a distant memory of the days untouched by war and death? He wants to spat at her that she should know better, that it does not matter what he says – or fails to do – he is _reliable_ and she should trust him with her suffering if she finds it impossible to bear it alone.

He is furious. Again. Lately it seems that it's the only thing he feels, that he is able to feel.

He quickly represses it. Of all the things that characterize Ino, selfishness is not one of those. Even if he wants nothing more than to dry her tears – he does not know how to deal with them – he is also drained by such heavy feelings, he is so damned exhausted. Although he can just imagine what it's like to come to an empty home, he knows what it's like to come to a house full of cries and wails. It kills him.

He lays eyes on her form, pathetically small against the expanse of the darkness surrounding her, and feels torn between soothing her and demanding that she comforts him. Never before did he felt such an intense pull towards her.

She becomes aware of his presence; the ache almost eases with his closeness and her yearning. She loves him with all the remains of her broken self, she knows she does, but even that emotion that weeks before shone as the blazing sun – nearly impossible to endure – was numb, emphasizing her loneliness, eating away at her disfigured heart. She remembers watching his dispassionate expression and thinking that she must have borne those feelings since a long time ago. She mildly believes that she did so in her past lives – such depth was excessive for _mere_ years, it belonged next to the history of time. She quietly wonders if she will love him in her next one as well. That thought is swiftly dismissed for she knows it's inescapable. But she does not want to think about him, not now, instead she focus on memories that are as sharp as daggers, slicing at her precarious sanity. She finds one that leaves her gasping, the room suddenly too small to accommodate the air that she needs to fed her lungs. Tears run harder down her face, and she knows she is panicking, but she continues to freeze herself in the picture that she conjured in her mind: a little girl, no older than 6, clutching the hand of an impossible tall man (her father always looked like a giant amongst men to her) and he is smiling down at the child. _He is smiling_ – in her memory – for she will never again see it, nor feel the warm of it. Her father, her dearest one, the man that always believed her when the world whispered how weak she was; the man who patiently waited for her to rise to her feet as she kneel on the training ground, trying to catch her breath; that man was no longer, he was gone. Even if she was to wait eternally for the front door to open and his huge frame to fill the house, he wouldn't come back – she knows, she has been waiting. She was alone, she was lost and she wasn't sure she wanted to be found.

She was exhausted, the storm within her the only thing keeping her awake; she wanted to sleep, to give in to the sweet arms of slumber that would wrap her forevermore.

Trembling tanned hands touched her nape and forced her face forward, his forehead resting on hers. He has trouble trying to decide which one of them is colder and more lifeless. The contact with her is not as soothing as he anticipated, but the feeling of her warm breath across his face fills him with something that he can't place – it doesn't matter what it is, he isn't as empty as seconds ago and that's the one thing he needs right now, the relief of the rawness. He has the strange urge to pull away from her, to step away from anything that would diminish his pain, for it is a tribute to his deceased father. Guilt tugs at his soul but his resolve it's not strong enough to make him stand up – he used all of his energy on his way towards her.

He never really knew what he wanted from the people around him, uncertainty and reluctance coating his every relationship; he never had much affection to give away either – or was it the lack of motivation to feel it? – and the expectations he had for other were as low as the ones for himself. His calculating mind always prevailed when met with the subjectivity of human nature and, bonds, to him, were about commodity, everything in life was (what a cold way to live, alas, the truth was never easy). _He understood,_ he always did; his nature was the same. Everything that he did or said was exactly what he needed – not wanted, needed – who would do so now? Who would he quietly look up to, when the only other man he admired was also embedded in hard stone? He too, stood alone, a boy that has to, from now on, act like a man. He cannot do it, he isn't worthy of it.

The tears that he did not command escape him, whilst long, gentle fingers find their way up to his back, clinging to the fabric of his vest. She whispers his name, it comes out breathless, broken and desperate, but he catches the undertone of it, it's meant to placate his agony – she is offering all that she has left, she doesn't keep it to herself, and he knows she will give him everything even if it means to be stripped of all that she was. Lips brush softly against her temple; he too will give her all he possesses, all he is. He wants to hold her closer but his muscles are mushy so he is content (not exactly, but he doesn't have the strength to do more) with memorizing the feel of her pale skin – it's not memorizing, it's recalling; how many times has she laid in his arms? He lost count. The difference now is that she is conscious, her mind somewhat present, and this is even more agonizing because he has no idea of where she is or when will she be back; she has to, she will, and she will bring his alongside.

She drags him down to the soft carpet and in any other day he would cringe at the intimacy of it – if it was any other day he also wouldn't touch her so boldly and cry so freely.

Minutes wash away (or hours, days, _centuries_, they don't know for sure, nor do they care) as they lie, chests pressed and breaths entangled; they are still empty but they are no longer cold.

From time to time she will nuzzle her nose on the line of his sharp jaw in hopes to draw more of his warm and more of his comfort. He will answer her with small kisses to her cheeks, the salty taste of dried tears growing weak – hers and his.

They will lay there, limbs entwined and hairs in disarray, only while the night still hides the withering dawn. They will spend many nights like this; nevertheless, the next day they will forget it – they are both very good liars, more so to themselves – blaming the solitude and the hurt.

But it doesn't really matter; in their misery they are not alone.

* * *

Feedback, please! It helps a lot to hear your opinion (especially what needs improving)


End file.
